Beatrix hadn’t asked for help, but if Faulkner was decent, then perhaps it would be useful to have him around.

“Alright. What’s your plan?”

“I’m parked outside. We’ll wait until it’s dark and then we’ll drive west. Once we get to Basra, I’ll fix up an appointment with the Group quartermaster. Should be able to get you kitted up with most of the gear you want. Sound alright to you?”

Chapter Twelve

Faik was taken back into the main prison building and led through the warren of corridors until he reached a small cell with thirty other men inside. There was a bench along one wall and a bucket for them to relieve themselves. There were no windows and the only light came from a flickering striplight high above.

The guards opened the door, covering the men with rifles, and tossed Faik inside.

The other prisoners paid him no regard. It was stifling hot, and the bruises that the policemen had inflicted were sore to the touch.

He sat down in a narrow space against the wall, bounded by two other men. He realised, with abject clarity, that his situation was very bad indeed. He felt lonely and helpless.

“Are you alright, brother?”

Faik looked up. The man to his right was looking at him.

“Are you alright?”

He gave a single stoic nod.

“What is your name?”

“Faik.”

“I am Ahmed. You have been with the mercenaries?”

“How do you know?”

He pointed and added with a polite smile, “Your hair is still wet.”

“They think I am with Muqtada al-Sadr.”

“Are you?”

“No,” he said. “I was protesting at Energy City. My mother was killed.”

“I am sorry.”

Ahmed paused for a moment. Faik took the chance to compose himself.

“What are you here for?” he asked him.

“I am a lawyer. I found evidence of fraud in the government. Bribes from big foreign corporations to win the contracts they tendered for. I was found out, and well”—he spread his arms—“here I am.”

“But you didn’t do anything wrong.”

Ahmed looked at him as if he were a child. “That depends who you ask.” He arranged himself against the wall, wincing from a stiff back. “They asked you whether you were with Muqtada?”

“Yes.”

“What did you say?”

“That I didn’t know him. And I don’t.”

“They don’t expect us to say we do. I doubt they think we are involved in the uprising at all.”

“I’m not.”

“I believe you.”

“So why are they asking?”

“It is all for effect. One big show. They need to show the people that they are serious about security. They will demonstrate that they can deal with the insurgents. It doesn’t matter if the people they punish are engineers, office clerks, mechanics”—he gestured to himself and then to Faik—“or lawyers and young men.”

Faik set his jaw and said with a conviction he didn’t feel, “They’ll let me out. They have to. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

Ahmed laughed, a hacking noise that soon became a hoarse cough.